Chapter 26 Dominic
Dominic
Mattaniah has been working from my office for two days and the room no longer smells like mine.
The leather and smoke that used to dominate the space has been diluted by warm coconut from the Omega curled on the window seat and pine from the scarf Amos left draped across the back of Mattaniah's chair.
The nest in the corner of my office has grown since yesterday.
A second throw blanket appeared this morning, one I don't recognize, which means Mattaniah raided the linen closet while I was in a meeting.
My cardigan has migrated from the chair arm to the base of the arrangement, positioned flat at the bottom, and the pillow from the window seat has been relocated to the center of the pile.
He doesn't know I watch him add to it. He waits until I leave the room, moves quickly, then returns to his laptop as if nothing happened. The precision of the additions tells me his instincts are driving the construction even if his conscious mind is still filing it under "organizing."
Right now he's on the window seat with his laptop balanced on his knees and a pen between his teeth, his feet tucked under the throw blanket, his curls falling across his forehead.
The Southeast division files are spread around him in a semicircle that Amos would approve of.
His focus has been locked for the past two hours.
The only sounds in the office are our keyboards and the occasional tap of his pen against his lower lip.
Amos arrives at four with coffee for three and a USB drive.
He crosses to my desk first, leans down, and presses his mouth against mine in a kiss that lasts three seconds and tastes like the espresso he drank on the way up.
Then he crosses to Mattaniah and does the same, his hand cupping the back of the Omega's neck while Mattaniah's pen drops from his teeth and his lips part under Amos' mouth.
The sequence is natural and effortless, Amos greeting his mates in the order he encounters them.
"Found three more shell companies in the Southeast accounts." Amos drops the USB on my desk and perches on the corner. "Father's been routing funds through a subsidiary in Delaware that doesn't appear on any of the official filings."
"How much?"
"Conservative estimate, two point four million over eighteen months." He pushes his glasses up. "Mattaniah caught the first thread. I followed it."
My gaze moves to the Omega on the window seat. He's watching us with his coffee in both hands and a flush on his cheeks that could be from Amos' kiss or from the praise or both.
"Good work, firefly."
The flush deepens. He takes a sip of coffee to hide it and goes back to his laptop, but the corner of his mouth curves against the rim of the cup.
Amos stays, working from the couch with his laptop, his feet propped on my coffee table.
The three of us occupy the office in a configuration that feels practiced even though we've only been doing this for two days, each of us in our designated space, the silence between us comfortable rather than strained.
Mattaniah migrates from the window seat to the floor beside the nest at some point, his back against the chair, his laptop on his crossed legs, the throw blanket pulled down around his shoulders.
He's close enough to the nest that his scent feeds into it while he works, and his hand reaches back to adjust the cardigan's position without looking, his fingers finding the fabric by touch and smoothing it flat.
Father hasn't approached my office since the kitchen incident. His assistant delivered two memos today, both routine, both carrying the careful neutrality that means Father is regrouping rather than retreating. The silence won't last. It never does.
By six the office has emptied out on the floors below us and the building goes quiet.
Amos closes his laptop and stretches on the couch, his shirt riding up to show a strip of skin above his waistband.
Mattaniah's typing slows and his eyes flick to Amos' exposed stomach before returning to his screen with studied focus.
"You're staring, Niah." Amos doesn't open his eyes.
"I'm working."
"Your typing stopped for four seconds. That's staring."
"Your shirt is riding up. That's distracting."
"Take a break." I close my own laptop and lean back in my chair. "Both of you. We've been at this for nine hours."
Mattaniah saves his work and closes his laptop.
He stays on the floor beside the nest, his back against the chair, the throw blanket pooled around his waist. The light from the window behind him catches his curls and turns them copper at the edges.
His face has lost the pinched quality it carried for the first week, the constant tension of an Omega bracing for impact.
Amos rolls off the couch and crosses the room. He drops to the floor beside Mattaniah and pulls the Omega against his side, his arm draping across his shoulders. Mattaniah leans into the contact without hesitation, his head finding the hollow of Amos' shoulder.
"Come here, Dom." Amos says it without looking at me, his fingers already working through Mattaniah's curls.
I shouldn't. The office door isn't locked and the cleaning crew starts their rounds at seven. But Mattaniah is looking at me from across the room with an expression that bypasses every rational argument against crossing the floor, my body already moving before I can think better of it.
I sit on the floor beside them. The nest is at my back, the stolen fabrics pressing against my shoulders, and Mattaniah shifts until he's between us, his back against my chest, his legs stretched across Amos' lap. The arrangement happens without discussion.
"I found something in the files today." Mattaniah's voice is quiet, his head tipped back against my shoulder. "A recurring payment to a company called Meridian Holdings. Two hundred thousand dollars every quarter for the past three years."
"Meridian doesn't exist." Amos' hand rests on Mattaniah's knee. "I checked. The incorporation documents are fabricated."
"Your father is stealing from his own company." Mattaniah says it with a flatness that tells me he's not surprised by the corruption, only by the scale. "Eight hundred thousand a year into a shell company he controls."
"We knew that." My hand finds his hip. "What we needed was proof. You found it."
He turns his head enough that his mouth is close to my jaw. "What happens when you have enough?"
"We take it to the board. Father loses his position. The company stays intact." I keep my voice level because the plan sounds clean when I summarize it and the execution will be anything but. "Amos has the presentation nearly built."
"And me?" His voice drops. "What happens to me when your father goes down? My mother is tied to him. If he falls, she falls, and I'm the son of the woman who’s dating the CEO under false pretenses."
"You're the forensic analyst who helped uncover the fraud." Amos squeezes his knee. "That's how the board will see it."
None of us fills the silence. Mattaniah's hand finds mine on his hip and threads our fingers together. His thumb traces a pattern against my knuckle.
"I'm going to lock the door," Amos says, and he does.
When he comes back he doesn't sit across from us.
He kneels in front of Mattaniah, between his spread knees, and takes the Omega's face in both hands.
The kiss starts slow and stays slow, Amos' mouth moving against Mattaniah's with a patience that makes the Omega soften against my chest in increments.
His fingers tighten on mine and a small sound escapes into Amos' mouth that I feel vibrate through his back into my ribs.
My free hand slides up under Mattaniah's shirt, my palm flat against his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten and release under my touch.
His skin is warm and the slick panties are already damp when my fingers brush the waistband, his body responding to the proximity of both of us before anyone has taken anything off.
Amos pulls back from the kiss and looks at me over Mattaniah's shoulder. "Go slow tonight."
"I know."
"I mean it, Dom."
Mattaniah turns in my arms until he's facing me, his knees on either side of my thighs, straddling my lap on the office floor with the nest at my back.
His hands find my chest and his fingers work the buttons of my shirt, one at a time, his focus dropping to the fabric as it opens.
Amos settles behind him and presses his mouth against the back of the Omega's neck while his hands slide up under Mattaniah's shirt and pull it over his head.
Mattaniah pushes my shirt off my shoulders and his eyes travel across my chest. His gaze catches on the left side and stops.
The bond mark sits over my nipple, a crescent of raised scar tissue that matches the one on Amos' ribs. The skin around it is healed and smooth, the edges softened by six years, but the shape of Amos' teeth is unmistakable. Mattaniah's hand hovers an inch from it, his fingers trembling.
"Can I?" he whispers.
"Yes."
His fingers make contact and the touch sends a jolt through my nervous system that has nothing to do with pain.
The bond mark is wired directly into the connection between Amos and me, every nerve ending in the scar tissue linked to the mate who put it there, and when Mattaniah's fingertips trace the crescent I feel Amos' breath stutter behind the Omega in response.
"You can feel him when I touch it." Mattaniah looks up at me, his eyes wide.
"I can feel everything."
His fingers trace the scar again, slower this time, mapping the curve of it with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
He leans forward and presses his mouth against the mark and the sensation pulls a sound from my chest I've never made before.
Behind Mattaniah, Amos groans, his forehead dropping against the Omega's shoulder blade.